


Hello My Old Heart

by lookingforatardis



Series: The Blank Years [3]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 16:03:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13274994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookingforatardis/pseuds/lookingforatardis
Summary: “He has a son?” I ask, my voice foreign. I feel my limbs the way one feels rain through a raincoat, present but absent of all the anticipated feeling.[Oliver finds out Elio has a son.] Part of a collection of stories taking part during the 9 years Elio and Oliver have no direct contact. ***READ PART ONE before this!***





	Hello My Old Heart

**Author's Note:**

> This started off being inspired by the song Hello My Old Heart by The Oh Hellos, but to explain exactly why I would really need to post an analysis of this song. MAKE SURE you read part one of The Blank Years before reading this!!! SUPER important! Part two is also a huge help to understanding the emotion, but less necessary I suppose.  
> A reference for you on the timeline here: At the eight year mark of silence, it's year ten since the summer- Oliver's sons are 7 and 5; Aaron is 4.

I'm turning the page of a student's report on modern parallels to Cupid and Psyche, sipping a nice, dry red wine when he calls. I pick it up, recognizing the foreign number. "Professor," I greet, sitting back against my office couch, tossing the report onto my desk a few feet away.

"Oliver! Oh, how great it is to hear your voice," he says. I can hear commotion in the background, laughter and some mangled piano piece in another room. I'd think it was him, but he was far better than whatever was being played, even drunk, and he was supposedly in America anyway. I push the thought from my mind and focus on my old friend instead. "Things have been a little hectic here lately, it's been too long since we've spoken. How are you?" I smile and begin catching him up on my life. I tell him about a former student I had who I was recommending apply for the summer in Italy. I tell him about the boys, about Mary. We talk for a long time about them. He asks about the ski vacation we went on recently, laughing as I recall my youngest being a real handful after he took it upon himself to decide skiing was too dangerous, four hours into our trip. I tell him of my oldest taking piano lessons, almost like a confession, almost like admitting something I'm not aware of.

"Ah, yes. It's always fun when little ones start off on an instrument," he says. "Though, admittedly, it can be quite painful to listen to." I laugh at this, knowing what he means all too well. "Don't let him quit, is my advice to you. There will be a moment when he wants to, but eventually he'll be grateful to you for making him stick with it," he says. I'm quiet for a moment. There was a pattern with our phone calls. We would catch each other up, reminisce about the past, romanticize literature and talk about random things. He would never speak his name, and I would never bring him up. Sometimes we would dance around the subject—like now with the piano talk—but there was a line he seemed to understand couldn't be crossed. It had been like this for years. The last time I heard his name spoken was almost seven years ago, a few months after my first son was born. I had called Perlman one night, perhaps around 3am my time, cradling my son in my arms after finally getting him to fall asleep. I was exhausted, needing some hope that it wouldn't always be like this. The professor spoke fondly about becoming a father, easing my mind as he spoke about _him_ and all the nights he had stayed up, wondering if he would be a good father, if he would be able to raise his son better than his own parents raised him. I had cried that night. I hadn't allowed myself to think about _him_ in a long time, and Mr. Perlman was saying everything I myself had been fearing every second of the day. We spoke for a long time, him telling me stories of those early days and me listening, soaking up every second.

“His son is doing lessons as well, you can probably hear him banging away at the keys. He hasn’t quite shown the promise that—well, never mind about that. Is Mary wanting both the boys to play? Or was it you who put him into the lessons?” he asks. I want to tell him it was Mary, that she’d probably put both of them through lessons, that it wasn’t my choice. I want to say all of this, but I can’t.

“He has a son?” I ask, my voice foreign. I feel my limbs the way one feels rain through a raincoat, present but absent of all the anticipated feeling.

“Oh, I thought you would have known,” he replies, a little surprised.

“ _No_.” A son. He has a son! How old was he, what was his name, had he married and they forgot to tell me, was he there, could he hear his father talking to me, did he know I was listening to _his son_ playing the piano, did he have his eyes, his hair, his joy of life, was he rambunctious, did he sleep in the room I lived in while they visited, did they live in Italy, I thought he was in America, did they speak Italian to him, where was his mother, did he have a mother, did he have two fathers, were they all there, what did it sound like when he laughed, how tall was he, could he ride a bike—

“Oliver?” Mr. Perlman asks quietly. I let out a shaky breath and swallow hard.

“What’s his name?” I manage, my fingers pressing against space above my eyes.

“His son? Aaron,” he says softly. “He’s four.” My god, he had a four-year-old. When did he have a four-year-old, why hadn’t anyone told me! Four years, he’d been a father for four years, why hadn’t anyone told me?

“What’s he like?”

“Oliver-“

“It’s okay, I want to know.” Please, tell me something. Anything. I need to know, I hadn’t felt this far and this close in years.  

“He’s…well, he’s like Elio.” _Elio._ Elio, Elio, Elio. I close my eyes when the tears come, pressing the phone to my forehead for a moment before catching my breath and returning it to my ear. _Elio._

“Is he there? Is…”

“No,” he says. “No, he’s not. Aaron is with us for a few days. He’s actually in America, he has an audition in New York.” _New York._ He was in New York, that was a train ride. I can hear Aaron playing the piano and realize now that the laughter I had heard earlier was that of a child, of _Elio’s_ child. “Oliver? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” I mutter.

 _“Nonna, you play!”_ Oh god. His voice, that voice. It’s faint, almost impossible to hear, but it’s there. Aaron, his son, it’s his son, his four-year-old son. I feel like I’m waking up, like something has been shaken inside me.

“Oliver? Perhaps I should call you back?” Mr. Perlman asks.

“No, please—” I hear laughter, more laughter, this time from Annella as well as the boy as more hands hit the piano.  

“Oliver,” he sighs. “Truly, are you alright?”

“He didn’t tell me,” I say. I stand, begin pacing. “He didn’t tell me he had a son. He never told me. Is he married? Why haven’t you told me any of this, the boy is _four_!”

“I didn’t think it would help,” he says. I know he’s right, of course he is, but I still can’t help the frustration from settling in my bones. “He’s not, married that is. They never married, though he’s been with Rowan for, God, I guess it’s been about four years, too. They met in America, so the last time he was there.” _Rowan._ Another name, another fact of his life kept from me. “They live in M. now, though I suspect not for long if his audition goes well.” He would return to America, is what he means. He would be in New York, he would be a train ride away. He, and his son. And Rowan.

“Stop! Mom! He’s doing it again—”

“Liar!”

“Hey! Your father is on a call, be quiet. Come on—I thought you were doing your homework, and _you_ , why are your hands covered in marker?” I walk over to the door to close it the rest of the way—it had been open just a crack—shutting my family out to hear about his.

“Everything alright?” Perlman asks.

“My boys can’t go a day without fighting, it seems,” I say, sitting down at my desk.

“Listen, Oliver. I know this was a lot, I didn’t mean to spring it on you like this. I thought Annella would have told you.”

“It’s fine,” I say, taking a deep breath. There’s a moment of silence, the distant sound of conversation and music drifting from his side. Someone else must have taken over the piano, perhaps a neighbor or after-dinner guest. Perhaps _Rowan_. “Is he happy?” I ask quietly. Perlman sighs, a deep exhale that holds weight and words I know in an instant he will not speak, and even if he does, I know there will be more I cannot know.

“I think so. Aaron has made him happy,” he says. Aaron, why not Rowan? Did Rowan not make him happy, was Rowan with him in New York or had he chosen to go alone? He was happy. He had to be—Perlman wouldn’t lie to me.

“I’m glad,” I say, swallowing my questions. It wasn’t my place.

“Listen—I have to go. Our guests—”

“I understand,” I say. I remember what it was like when guests would start getting out of hand, or when the professor didn’t give them enough attention. We say goodbye and I sit in silence. I feel cold. He had this entire life that I never knew about; it made sense, of course he did, but still. He had a son.

I was suddenly angry, uncommonly so. I missed that, I missed his son being born, I missed the late nights when he, too, would have stayed up and held him while he cried. I missed the chance to be the person he called, he should have called me, I had two sons, he should have called me, should have let me tell him it would be alright, should have let me talk to him when it got hard. I should have been his call when he got sick the first time. I should have been the person he called when he said _dad_ for the first time. I was denied all this, _they_ _all_ denied me this. They never told me. They never said he was a father, they never said there was someone walking around that was half him with his passion for music and god, _damnit_ , they should have _told me._

I stop trying to wipe the tears away and give into it. Eight years. It had been eight years since I’d heard his voice. Since I’d heard _Elio’s_ voice. Elio, who had a son, who had a Rowan, who was in New York _right now._

I wondered if Aaron had his curly hair. God, I hoped he had his hair, a little Elio running around with soft curls. My heart swells at the thought. This wasn’t healthy, I shouldn’t feel like this. It’d been ten years since that summer, it shouldn’t still bring me to my knees to hear his name. I should be over this by now.

There’s a knock at my door and I wipe my face and clear my throat. “Come in,” I say, trying to control my voice.

“I was just wondering if spaghetti was okay for dinner—are you alright, dear?” Mary asks.

“I’m fine, and that sounds lovely, thank you,” I reply, hoping she doesn’t press me for details.

“Was it the Perlman’s?” she asks, her eyes sad. I nod, and she returns the motion. “Okay, I’ll leave you.” She closes the door and I begin pushing the conversation to the back of my mind. I wouldn’t function if I kept thinking about it, I needed to move beyond the moment. I place mental blocks against the sound of Aaron playing the piano, against his name, against the knowledge that there is a Rowan. I open the folder on my desk and start grading papers, forcing the emotion away from me. I would be fine, I always was. I just needed to slip back into my life, let go of his.

When I sleep that night, I dream of him laying in Monet’s Berm, a curly haired kid running around as the sun sets. He turns to me and smiles, telling me he’s happy, that he wishes every day could be this perfect.

I wake in a cold sweat, the dream floating away like a memory of another life until it’s gone, nothing more than a whisper in the night.

I shower and make breakfast before going to work. I teach my lessons, answer questions, come home, kiss Mary, watch tv, drink a beer, go to sleep, wake up, go to work, teach, come home, kiss Mary, go to sleep, wake up, teach, sleep, teach, sleep…

Life would go on, I realize. It always had, it always would. The dream lived in a parallel life, a forgotten sunset on a hill that a different me had been to, many years ago. It did not belong to me. This life I lived, that was the only reality I could afford to consider. The rest was a dream to be visited when I slept, destined to never be anything more than what the other me allowed it to be in the darkness and secrecy of night.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Playlist (different from my other one): https://open.spotify.com/user/nizzie23/playlist/3EGWy9LEfgJmnHYcPaUsFC  
> The next Blank Years post will probably be a step back in time. I just really needed to write about Oliver learning Elio had a son lol


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